Chapter 34
Chapter thirty-four
Dazzling
Becky
Carrson sits on the floor next to me, our shoulders brushing, and together we sort through the rest of the paperwork in the office. When something catches our attention, we hold it up for each other to see.
He lifts a sheet that reads:
Twelve bottles of rum, twenty cartons of champagne, two adult elephants, three bicycles.
“That must’ve been one hell of a party,” he says, as one brow tips, a crooked grin forming.
“Two?” I laugh. “Who even orders elephants?”
“People with too much money and not enough supervision,” he replies, eyes crinkling.
We both laugh and it’s easy. Uncomplicated in a way nothing between us has ever been before.
When the last of the papers are gone, Carrson pushes to his feet and glances down at me. “One last ride?”
He holds out his hand, and I take it, a little in awe that he doesn’t flinch, and even more when he doesn’t let go. Not when we stand. Not when we walk. Not even when he doesn’t need to. Carrson holds on all the way to the stables.
Soon, our horses gallop side by side, their hooves kicking up chunks of dirt as we tear through the forest.
“Race you!” Carrson shouts, already leaning forward, urging his mount faster.
“You’re on,” I kick lightly at my mare’s sides. She snorts, nostrils flaring, muscles flexing and releasing, surging forward as if she wants to win as badly as I do.
The wind claws at my hair, the world blurs into streaks of green and gold. Sunlight flashes off the lake beside us, dazzling. In that moment, it’s just us. Speed and the wild, reckless joy of it. The world reduced to the pounding of hooves and our laughter.
I see it then.
A version of us untouched by everything that came before. A world where Remi never died. Where Carrson was raised by someone kind. No power plays. No lines drawn in the sand.
It warms me, even though I know we aren’t those people. We were never going to be them. Still, I tuck it away, this fragile moment, keeping it for myself. Something to hold onto for later.
By the time we slow to a trot and then tie the horses up, the spell of motion fades, replaced by the whisper of the forest. Spring has set in and tiny clumps of wildflowers, yellow and white, grow in the shade of ancient oaks. They release a heady perfume into the air.
Feeling whimsical, I pluck one and hand it to Carrson. “For you, sir,” I say with an exaggerated bow, stifling a grin.
He takes it, twirls the stem between his fingers, then leans forward to tuck it behind my ear. “I think it looks better on you,” he murmurs, and my cheeks warm.
His eyes follow me, lingering, as I set out our lunch and my sketch pad.
After we eat, I work on my picture of him. I’m done with the part where he needs to sit. Now it’s all playing with shadow and light. Coloring in some spaces and leaving others gray.
Carrson digs into the bag he brought and pulls out a long coil of rope, thicker at one end, almost like a handle.
“What’s that?” I ask.
In answer, he lifts his hand and the rope uncoils. My smile dims when I see it’s a whip, long and speckled with darker areas I call dirt but might be something else.
“It was in my father’s office,” Carrson says, raising it. He flicks it through the air and the tip whistles close enough to make me jump. It hits a tree close by with a loud crack.
A shiver runs through me, part fear, part thrill.
“Shockingly, he never used it on me,” Carrson says it so casually, as if being spared was a rare mercy, that I feel the sting of tears at the back of my eyes. I swallow them down quickly, not wanting him to see.
He draws the whip back to him, gathers it into his hands.
His eyes slide over to me. “Becky.” His voice is mild, but my muscles instantly go tense, knotted, an involuntary brace against whatever comes next.
“What?” I ask, even though I already know.
It’s in the way he watches me from the corner of his eyes, how he’s already balanced on the ball of his feet, energy held in reserve but ready to explode, a predator about to strike.
“You went someplace you weren’t supposed to.”
I stumble to my feet, “Wait. No—no, I—”
The words die the second he turns fully toward me. I stand there, silent, knees locked so I don’t tremble.
He nods, like I made the correct choice.
“Good girl,” he murmurs. Then, almost conversational, “I think it’s time for you to run.”
He grins, a wide, hungry smile. “But understand something,” he adds, voice low, “When I catch you—”
Not if.
When.
“I won’t go easy on you.”
It’s wrong, so very wrong, how my body answers those words. I should be quaking, terrified, running already. Instead, my blood warms, heat rises, enough to make me aware of every inch of myself.
I want to fight it. Deny it. Argue but it’s pointless.
Carrson steps closer and the whip slips loose, unspooling at his feet like a snake and I can tell, this was planned. Since the moment we walked out of that room.
“Ready,” he says.
He raises the whip, high over his head.
“Set—”
His smile deepens.
“Go.”
I run.
Not fast enough. I know it immediately. My body lags behind the decision, one step too slow, so I pump my arms harder, will my feet to move quicker. The ground is uneven beneath my boots, roots breaking through the soil, branches snagging at my sleeves.
Behind me there’s nothing. No footsteps or voice. No sound of pursuit. The forest presses in, the air thicker here, the light dimmer. Every sound I make tells him where I am, the snap of twigs, the stomp of my feet, the frantic way my arms flail.
My lungs expand and I feel it as my legs burn, a breathless, terrible kind of freedom.
A laugh almost bubbles up. He’s letting me go. Leaving space. Giving me hope.
All so he can take it away later.
A crack splits the air behind me. I flinch hard, stumbling mid-step.
A reminder.
He’s closer now. I should be afraid of this, of him. I am afraid, but it tangles with something else.
I startle and yelp when I hear it from my left, the crack of his whip.
He’s closer than I thought. Hunting me.
The forest is smaller with him in it. I listen hard as I sprint through the undergrowth, searching for him with my ears. I swerve to the right. My toe hits a rock and I almost go down. I pinwheel my arms, struggling to stay upright.
I tell myself to go faster, but instead I slow a little.
I know the terrain. I could turn left, double back, disappear into the trees.
But I don’t.
Movement to my right. A blur between the trees.
I barely have time to react before something catches around my ankle.
The ground disappears.
I hit hard, sprawling in the dirt. Pain flares through my side, but I barely notice it, scrambling immediately, kicking, twisting, trying to free myself as the whip tightens like a leash.
“Fuck!” I shout, anger burning through me as I kick at it, furious that he won.
Carrson comes up smiling. The bastard.
“Let me go,” I shriek, trying to pry the rope off but it’s wound too tight to wedge my fingers under it.
He crouches, out of reach. His cheeks are more flushed than usual, his eyes bright, and I hate it, how handsome he is. Almost unearthly. I hate that I notice, even now.
“No,” he says, one hand holding the rope, the other relaxed at his side, as if this is nothing. As if I’m not on the ground in front of him, caught, my heart slamming so hard it might crack my ribs open.
His gaze runs over me, taking in every detail, the dirt on my hands, the rise and fall of my chest, the way I keep trying to push myself backward even though I know it won’t work.
He pulls the whip and I’m dragged closer to him.
I turn onto my stomach and dig my fingers into the ground but it’s no use.
Within minutes, his hand closes around my ankle.
He pulls me into him and hauls me up. He tugs on the rope, freeing it from my ankles, then quickly uses it to tie my wrists together.
That done, Carrson throws me over his shoulder.
I pound against his back with my joined fists but it’s no use. Hitting him is like fighting a glacier. He’s as cold and unmovable.
“You know why I caught you so quickly?” He says, as he walks us back toward the clearing where the horses wait.
I stop my thrashing.
He continues, “It’s because you didn’t really try to get away.”
“That’s—that’s not—” my denial falters, weak even to my ears. “It’s because you’re fast.”
A faint smile. “I am.” He takes another step and I bounce lightly against him. His shoulder digs into my stomach, “But that’s not why I caught you.”
“Then why?”
“Because you wanted me to.”
I laugh, making it loud on purpose. “You’re insane.”
“Am I?” He holds me with an arm over the back of my thighs. “You kept glancing back,” he continues. “You didn’t change direction. You didn’t even try to lose me.”
“So?” I challenge, working hard to keep my voice from betraying me.
“You ran,” he says. “But you never left me. You stayed exactly where I could find you.”
I open my mouth, but no sound comes out.
“Do you want to know what that means?”
My silence answers for me.
“It means you’re not afraid of me,” he says, his voice dropping. “Even though you should be.”
My stomach flips but he doesn’t stop.
“You’re curious. Reckless. Self-aware enough,” he adds, “to know what you’re doing.”
I press my lips together, determined not to answer.
“I want you to admit it. You don’t run from me.” His hold turns unyielding. “You run for me.”
I snort. “Never.”
We’re back to the clearing now. Carrson sets me on my feet but keeps his hand on the rope.
“You know,” he says, “You’re most predictable when you’re lying. Which is why you’re going to enjoy this next part, even though you won’t want to admit it.”
I should fight. Kick. Do something.
I don’t.
My pulse is racing, but it’s not fear driving it.
Then he sits with his legs stretched out and pulls me down with him. He lays me over his lap and yanks down my pants and underwear with a quick jerk.